I

The night was clear; the stars shimmered brightly on the outskirts of the city. It was far enough away from light pollution that even the Milky Way was nearly visible. It was quiet except for the sounds of nature. With owls hooting, crickets chirping, the occasional croak of a frog, it was the perfect night for destruction. 

The building I chose was perfect: an old, abandoned cabin. The previous owners had perished long ago, leaving no next of kin to take care of their property allowing critters to turn it into their home. No one would think twice about coming out this way - that is, until I finished with my work.

On my way to catch my victim, I found an alternate path to take when leaving the scene. I am fully aware that first responders will be alerted as soon as I finish tonight, so I need a quick and stealthy escape. 

You see, tonight is all about Arthur. Arthur is a photographer - an outstanding photographer. His photographs range from beautiful landscapes to candid shots of wild animals in their natural habitat, but the photos of Arthur’s that stand out to me the most are the ones of the little girls he loves so dearly. 

Arthur does more than just take pictures of little girls, though - he poses them in ways that make my skin crawl. At first, his photographs are seemingly innocent; he watches them on the playground like your typical creep and takes pictures of them enjoying their lives. Once he finds the perfect girl, he follows her home. 

His intentions began to escalate shortly after choosing his victim. Typically, he waits until after he learns her parents’ routine before he earns the girl’s trust to lure them away. This time he chose to stalk his next victim and wait for her to be most vulnerable. I wish I could say all he wants from them are innocent photographs, but what he does once he captures them is far from innocent.

Even though the police knew about Arthur’s creepy playground activity, there was never enough evidence to hold him. When they ask to see the photos he takes, he shows them nothing but nature. The lack of intelligence in our police department is astounding. You would think someone within would think to check his files on his computer or ask to see his reaction.

Regardless, this made it easier for me to target him. Since he is not on police radar, no one will be looking into his disappearance, at least not immediately.

Tonight, I followed him on his way to pick up his next victim. Fortunately for her, she would be seeing her loved ones later tonight. Arthur - however - would not be so lucky.

He chose the stereotypical predator tactic by driving a windowless, white van that he pulled up alongside her. She was walking home from what appeared to be practice for a school sport. Gym bag in hand, she looked tired and ready for some shut-eye. He was stalking her while at her weakest - how inconsiderate.

From my perspective, it looked as though she was distracted by her phone. Kids these days are glued to their electronics, so it is easy for men like him to be predators. I wish - for her sake - she would be more guarded when walking home late at night alone.

I wanted to be close enough to intervene, which made me look equally creepy - following behind her in dark clothing with my leather gloves and a hooded sweatshirt. Arthur noticed that she was distracted because he pulled up alongside her getting ready to ask her if she wanted a ride home. Before he managed to roll down the passenger window to ask, I slipped up near the driver’s side window, chloroform rag in hand. He was out in seconds. The little girl continued walking - she noticed the van but dismissed it and continued her walk with eyes glued to her phone. 

After she was out of sight, I shoved Arthur to the passenger seat, threw my bag of supplies in the back, and drove to the old cabin. He would be out long enough to get there, but as soon as we arrived, I needed to tie him up and keep him quiet. I had no intention to let this man speak and try to defend himself. His pictures have done enough talking for him over the years.

As I pulled up to the cabin, I grabbed my supplies and went to work. Arthur will need binding to keep him from escaping. Of course, tying him up is the easiest way to maintain control of his movements. My favorite knot was the constrictor knot; it is nearly impossible to get out of and, when done correctly, squirming to get out just makes it worse for the captured. 

After finishing his knots, I moved him inside the cabin and set him up for storytime. My victims wrote their own stories. Well, they wrote the beginning and middle; the ending is what I like to contribute. 

He began to moan while I finished restraining him to the chair. Before he could scream, I slapped duct tape over his mouth, and his eyes went wide. Good. Reality is beginning to set in for my dear friend, Arthur. 

“There is no use in trying to escape. Those are constrictor knots. You are not getting out that easily.” 

His attempt did not falter, but the panic and fear rose to the surface of his face. Red cheeks, bloodshot eyes from his efforts at screaming through the duct tape, sweat dripping down his face. It was the end of summer in the Midwest, probably one of the hottest times for this area, even at night. My gloves were making my hands sweat, but at least I am not tied to a chair. 

“I want to tell you a story. You may be familiar with it at first, but I guarantee you, the ending will come as a surprise. 

There was this man who everyone admired and adored for his art. He was a fantastic photographer who knew how to capture a story in his pictures. It was almost as though he gave the meaning to A picture is worth a thousand words.

It appears this artist was never satisfied with his work. He began to escalate his photos into something more than just art. His work turned into pornography. Tasteless, vile, degrading pornography that only scum would get pleasure out of: Child porn. 

Unfortunately for this man - one person who does not tolerate the sexual exploitation of children caught wind of what he was doing. She decided it was time to act and to eliminate the source of this vile activity. And so, here we are at the end of this story. I can only assume for you; this would be your worst fears coming true. But, maybe you should have thought about that before violating those girls.” 

At this point, his face revealed a plethora of emotions: recognition, understanding, and fear to name a few. He knew why he was here, tied up, and why he would not be leaving this place alive. This man does not deserve to draw in another breath; the only entity that will be breathing around him will be the flames. 

“Of course, as a reminder, I brought those pictures you hold so dear to your heart. How could you forget them? You made them your property and disposed of them after stealing away their innocence. 

Did you think that dressing them up in dresses and bows would erase what you did? Did you think if you made them look innocent, people would forget how you violated them? Well, unfortunately for you, I have not forgotten.” 

The tears came rushing down his face. The reality of what was to come was sinking in, and he became restless. Still struggling, I propped the photos of his victims on a table across from him, taunting him to look at them while he burned. He was looking at the children he violated by using his desire to overpower them for his so-called art. 

 “Well, I would ask if you had any last words, but if it’s true what they say that a picture is worth a thousand, these speak volumes.”

On the ground in front of Arthur, I used the fuel to write my name. At least, the name I call myself: Angel of Death. For years, I have left this mark, and no one has found it. Not like the police in this city are smart enough. Their idea of detective work includes eating donuts, drinking coffee, solving only the easy cases, anything beyond that usually turns cold.

As I walked away, I could hear Arthur struggling again. It was useless. It’s challenging to disintegrate a body with fire completely, especially in the short time I have before the first responders arrive. To avoid much of an investigation, I forge a suicide note. My dear victims confess to their crimes, leaving evidence behind in a heartfelt letter - typed - no questions asked. Ever.

The fuel was beneath him; I just needed a spark to light the trail to his feet. Ever since switching to matches, my routine has changed. The first match is for me as a keepsake. Knowing the risk of holding on to trophies that belong to my victims, I hold on to the first match. I let it burn just long enough that the ignition point is blackened. Before the flames creep down towards the wood too far, I use them to light the second one.

After blowing out the flame, I let the smell of smoke fill my lungs as I inhale deeply through my nose, breathing in the calm before the storm. Arthur was watching me with intrigued eyes. Maybe he thought I would not follow through. Perhaps he hoped I would change my mind. Unfortunately for him, I never let a rapist live to tell their story. Not even if it meant saving myself. 

The first match was placed carefully in my father’s old metal matchbox. It keeps all of them safe, even his. To this day, my father’s voice still echoes in my head. 

I know you like it rough, bitch! 

It was time to finish what I came here to do. Arthur spent more than enough time defiling young girls, torturing them, forcing them to do unspeakable things for a human, let alone a child. The fire is hungry now, and I have the perfect meal. 

With the second match lit, I...